


Silence

by jeza_red



Series: Sansûkh: The Appendices [8]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Azanulbizar and after, Battle, Blood and Guts, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gen, It Gets Better, Sansukh-verse, a gift fic for detts, brotherly woes, but more angst, chance of tenses, ptsd of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Smaug's attack Thorin would do everything to save his remaining family from pain while Frerin would do anything to be worthy of that devotion.</p><p>Death doesn't change anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts).



> Okay, it was a very hard thing to write, since it dips into someone else's verse and all, but I just can't let go these two muffins and their painful/fluffy/painful relationship in SansukhT____T Determamfidd writes them both so well and this little snippet is a bit of an angsty/flyffy gift for her:D  
> *headverse tells me that Thorin is Frerin's safety blanket, while Frerin is Thorin's stress relieving stuffed toy>___>*

The day was sunny and bright, and it was the biggest irony of all. Slight drizzle fell at night and when the morning dawned everything was covered in a glistening layer of freshness. Even the air tasted sweet. Thorin pulled it in through his teeth, trying to marry the image of the cloudless pinkish sky with what awaited them.

Troops gathered at the entrance to the valley had to share his disquiet because silence hung heavy and suffocating over the campfires and tents.

"Too pretty of a day to die," he's heard Balin mutter at some point from his place by the massive oaken table strewn with maps and runestones.

"But a good one to break some spines," Dwalin growled back good naturedly and Thorin had to snort at that. Wry amusement always came easy to him... lately it was the only kind of amusement that did. Trying to keep a positive front with their future so uncertain was a struggle made harder with every day of exile.

Sometimes Thorin wondered if it’s possible that he’s also cursed with some sort of sickness of the mind, just like his grandfather. With his moods more volatile and temper shorter every day, it was hard for anyone to see him for the smiling, mischievous lad he was in the past and some of them - Balin mostly, but also his father and brother, took it upon themselves to comment on it every once in a while. Thorin could not say exactly when or how the change has come - he felt the same, less sure of the future and more weary, but he felt as he always did. Was it just an illusion caused by his own mind? Was he blinded by his pride like his grandfather was by the sight of gold?

It was, as usual, Frerin’s hand on his shoulder that cut into the gathering clouds of dark thoughts like a ray of sunlight.

Thorin turned and looked at his brother, trying to pull his face into some resemblance of untroubled calm. For a second he saw Frerin’s eyes shift and darken, and knew that he’d failed. His brother offered him a smile - the same bright and joyous smile that had the power to brighten up the world around him, that lifted spirits of anyone who looked upon it, - and Thorin almost sighed.

He knew, for a while now, how Frerin carried this smile as weapon and medicine for those he could do nothing else for. For their little Dis, for their broken hearted father, for him.

Sometimes he wanted to take his brother by the shoulders and tell him that he can stop now, that it’s okay. That they will prevail and everything will be alright. They all did what had to be done, and some had more skill and duties than others, and that it was okay, it was fair. Frerin would grow into his duties, he would get good at politics, he would stand with Thorin and Thrain as equal.  

But most of all he wanted to tell him that there’s no reason to keep his despair hidden behind that damn smile for their benefit. That his hurt was starting to show, bright optimism crumbling around the edges, and that it also was _alright_. That Thorin, as damaged and emotionally closed off as he was, could help him deal with it, that he could shield his bright sun in any way he could…

But he kept his mouth shut. Because he was weak and needed the illusion his brother’s smile provided, he needed the comfort it brought him. When they finally have a home back, he will repay for it, he will take care of his family, he will be a good brother and a good prince...

But now all he could do was to weakly smile back and reach out to stoke Frerin’s golden hair, offering him his own brand of comfort.

“Are you ready?” Frerin asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “Do you need help with putting the armour on, or…”

“I am alright,” Thorin cut him off, least the rambling would start. “I will not wear heavy armour, it slows me down. I have to keep up with the troops after all.”  

Maybe it was reckless, putting all of his faith into a tightly woven chainmail and a single shield instead of protecting himself under the comforting weight of steel plates - but he was never trained to fight in full armour, he was too young, there was never a chance… before. He was quick with a blade and skilled with a long axe, and that required more reach than plates would allow him. His father agreed, when they discussed the matter a few days ago. Thrain himself was a Dwarf of a mountainous build and _still_ knew well how much effort it took to move gracefully in layers upon layers of metal. He trusted his son to make the right choice.

“Then why do I have to carry this thing on my back?” Frerin complained, pointing at the edges of a heavy cuirass covering his torso and a swath of thick mail almost reaching his knees. It was a good, strong steel, nothing to sneer at. “Mahal’s Beard, I barely walked a few steps in it and I’m already sweating like a pig!”

Well, there was no gentle way of answering that question.

“Because you, brother mine, need it,” Thorin, not being a particularly gentle person, said bluntly. “It will keep you safe if you ever lose your shield.”

Because Frerin was even younger than him and there was even less time for him to learn how to fight properly. He was more of a talker, anyway, a trickster, quick and smart - qualities that would not help him at all on the battlefield when the chaos erupts and there’s no time to think on the next step.

“I will be with father!” Frerin whined softly, face burning red with shame. “And I am better with a bow anyway! Why won’t he let me stand with the archers?”

Because Thorin asked Thrain not to.

Because archers were small in numbers.

Because neither he nor father could be there.

But that was even less kind truth, so Thorin kept it for himself. His brother was smart, anyways, he probably already figured it out, but as long as no one speaks of it his dignity won’t take too much of a hit. They will recover from that.

Instead, he pulled Frerin closer by the arm and inspected fastenings along the sides of the chest plate, making sure they’re all in order. He tugged here and there while his brother tried to push him away, spitting like an angered catling.

“It’s alright, okay? It’s all tight and tied and… and done!” He hissed. “Father helped me put it on so you can stop your fussing, you big pillock!”

“I will never stop fussing over you, nadadith,” Thorin muttered. He once again brushed his hand through the golden mess on his brother’s head and wondered shortly which of them was this gesture supposed to calm more. “Dis has made me swear this exact thing at a swordpoint, I have no choice.”

“You’re worse than grandmother, I swear…” whatever else Frerin wanted to say drifted into silence after these words. “I…” he mumbled, lowering his eyes miserably. “I’m… sorry.”

They didn’t mention them, mother and grandmother, tried not to speak of them. Thorin was almost sure that Frerin and Dis, just like him, tried to not even think about them too often. It was still too painful to remember all those who died when the dragon came.

They were missed, of course, how could they not be missed by all? Especially now, when his family needed guidance and advice only his mother could provide. When they needed grandmother’s stony calm and the sway she’s had with countless royal houses across the Middle Earth.

But, most of all, Thorin needed their fussing and their love, because it was harder and harder to love himself when all his strivings barely made a dent in his people's misery.

And there it was, once more, that dark cloud appearing over his head.

But Frerin smiled again and, again, it dispersed for a while.

Thorin glanced at the busy corner of the room where Fundin and Dweris were louder and louder in their attempts to force Dwalin into some sort of armour. From the looks of it they’ve already dropped the notions of armguards and heavy plates, and instead settled on a simple, but sturdy chestplate, probably out of sheer frustration.

Frerin found it humorous. Thorin… tried.

“Mahal’s beard, they are worse than Dis,” Frerin commented lightly, elbowing him and asking curiously: “Did she try to give you a runestone too?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at that and reached into a hidden pocket on the inside of his belt, pulling out a small, smooth stone with a set of runes carved on one side. ‘ _Return to me_ ’ they said.

“You didn’t take it?” He asked, not exactly happy. Dis was so worried about them, almost tearful when they were leaving Iron Hills. She’s made Thorin promise that he will come back and that he will bring their Idiot Brother back undamaged, and that he will make sure that father comes back too…What could he do? He took the token from her little hands and kissed her forehead, and promised that he will bring them all back alive and whole.

If Frerin wouldn’t do the same…

“I told her to keep it,” Frerin said, shrugging. “You know me, I would lose it or break it, or worse… I know I could do worse, trust me. I told her to keep it safe, so I can have it when I’m back. She will fuss less this way, you know?” He looked up and the naked hope in his eyes made Thorin’s knees weak.

Without a word he pulled his brother into a quiet corner away from the entrance to the tent, away from their loud friends and their friends’ parents. “I need you to hear me now, nadadith,“ he answered to the question in his Frerin’s blue eyes. It was so easy to lower his voice and lean forward, as if they were naught, but a pair of children conspiring how to get their hands on grandfather’s crown without anyone noticing. “I _need_ you to stay with father.”

“Thorin…” Grimace of distaste crossed Frerin’s face and he’s made a move to lean back, but Thorin’s hand on the back of the neck stopped him. “I am not _completely_ hopeless…!”

“I know,” Thorin lied. “And that’s not the reason I’m asking either,” he half-lied. “Father is not…”

How hard it was to say. It stuck in his throat like a shard of glass, like a thorn. Knowledge they’ve all tried to deny - that Thrain wasn’t the same as before.

Thror, as depressing as it was, seemed better the further he was from the Mountain. He was more aware and vocal, energetic. Kinder.

Thrain seemed… lost. There were moments he would drift into his own head and stay there for hours, without a word or a gesture, face turned towards East.

Always towards East.  

Thorin could not even begin to understand how much it had to hurt to lose a One. He’s lost a mother and friends, and people dear to him, he understood grief. But his parents were a match that happened once in a thousand, old Fundin used to tell him, a pair so complete that some swore they could read each other’s thoughts! Fris, with her fierce intelligence and voice of reason that led the Guilds and Thrain who commanded hearts of his warriors with skill and steadfast dignity.

Thror might have ruled the kingdom from his throne, but it was them who had kept it running like a well-oiled mechanism for decades, without complaint, in silent contentment of a single benevolent entity.

Losing half of a soul like that, Thorin couldn’t imagine. The damage it did to one’s spirit seemed too deep to recover from.

“I know.” Frerin’s wide, scared eyes told Thorin that he understood. “Father is not himself,” he said. “Neither is grandfather, for that matter…”

“That’s why I will stay at his side,” Thorin nodded, one hand grasping his brother’s smaller palm.

“So they’re both looked after,” Frerin stated, nodding back. “And reminded that there’s… I understand.”

Maybe they were putting too much faith into the difference their presence would make, but, Mahal’s beard, they had to try! They had to show their father and grandfather that they’re not alone, that not all was lost.

Thorin knew that Thrain wouldn’t purposefully seek death in battle… at least he tried to believe it. But if he was wrong, Frerin’s presence should be enough of a reminder that there was someone still left to protect, to live for, it should do the trick of keeping father’s mind with them.

Thror was harder to figure out, but Thorin could serve as a good enough shield for his grandfather if the situation called for it.

They’ve lost enough already, enough of their family has been lost to the flames, they could afford no more. He would make sure that there will be no more death!

“You don’t have to be so frantic.”

Frerin turned his palm in his hand so that it was now him who held onto Thorin, and then covered their joined hands with his free one, as if to hold his brother in place. It was a trick Thorin vaguely remembered his grandmother using when he was a young dwarfling unable to stop in place for more than a minute at a time. She never scolded him for his impatience, just held his hands in such way that pulling out of the grasp seemed rude even to his young and reckless mind. Frerin had to learn that from her, then…

“You are not leading this battle, nadad,” his brother told him. “You can stop worrying. What will happen, will happen, and there’s little we can do about it now.”

It was a good advice. Sound and sensible.

But Thorin was thinking with his heart at the moment and it wasn’t a particularly wise heart.

He was about to say the exact same thing but a harsh slap over the knuckles made him hiss instead.

“What…?”

“I wish you would stop with that stoic facade and admit that you’re as scared as everyone else!” Frerin scowled at him with all his might - which, admittedly, wasn’t much, but it was the attempt that counted. “You can tell me, you know?  You can tell father! Mahal’s beard, you can even tell Dwalin, he’s probably as scared as you are and equally as stubborn about admitting it!”

“What good would that do?!” Thorin snapped back without thinking. He turned away and walked a few steps before realising that he’s trying to run. He stopped suddenly, horrified at his own cowardice and temper. It was Frerin talking to him! “What good will that do?” He repeated in a calmer tone, tiredly rubbing his face with one palm. “Fear is fear, it won't be banished by talking about it.”

“Shared burden is easier to carry,” his brother answered quietly. His voice was gentle with their mother’s tone. Why was it that he’s got all the bright, sensible parts of their heritage?

“Am I to share it with you?” It wasn’t Thorin’s intention to sound unkind, but that was how it came out and from the corner of his eye he saw Frerin flinch.

This conversation was not going as he'd planned it, damnit!

“How can I?” The words were like shards of glass stuck on his tongue, but he pushed them out regardless. Frerin was only a couple of years younger than him, but with each year it was more evident that he’s also inherited mother’s short stature and Thorin, favoured by the Durin’s impressive height, had to bend his neck quite a bit for their foreheads to meet. “How can I, when it’s you whom I’m fearing most for right now?”

His brother’s blue eyes stared at him, wide from shock, and Thorin let them see the naked fear in his own eyes - but just for a moment. He could not stand to be bared like that, not even in front of someone who would never mock him for it. No, for him shared burdens weren’t lighter, the opposite actually - they were all the heavier for fear and worry of others.

“Thorin, I…”

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” he whispered. “ _I_ shouldn’t be here, but you are…”

“A Dwarrow who can make his own decisions!” Frerin cut in.

“...my mimel ûrzud.”

Silence after these words was deafening. Thorin closed his mouth and swallowed with difficulty, as if he’s just finished spitting nails instead of speaking. He might as well has been - with the ease talking about feelings, his own at that, always came to him. Grandmother might have been right in scolding him so many times that he was too much of a Longbeard.

But Frerin wasn’t laughing, thankfully, just… staring at him in some sort of frightened wonder. After a heartbeat or so his cheeks started to change colour, though, and it didn't take long until Thorin was left staring at the tips of his brother’s ears that were taking on a curious shade of red while their owner tried to hide his face under a curtain of unkept blonde hair.

“I am not _little_!” Was the answer that made him chuckle.

“But you always worry me, nadadith, you and Dis. I would spare you two all harm if it was possible.”

Frerin looked up at him and opened his mouth to say something… but halfway through closed it and no words came out. There was something tormented in his eyes, however, something sad.

“Nadadith?” Thorin inquired.

“No, nothing.” Frerin shook his head. “It won't help, not now. Later, we...”

Thorin never got to hear the rest of that sentence because of Dweris, who had finally exploded in a storm of righteous anger at her younger son and stormed out of the tent with Balin at her feet.

“You better go and order him into that thing before they turn on us,” Frerin whispered, pushing him towards the father and son locked in a silent staring match. “I don't want to deal with angry Fundin on top of everything else.”

“And who does?” Thorin mouthed back.

He didn't want to, but he was a prince and his duty laid in protecting his people. Filled with resolve, he stalked towards his old friend and his father, for a moment forgetting to ask what was it about his words that distressed Frerin so…  

*

The last words they’ve shared before the battle were trite in comparison. They both tried to look braver that they felt in front of their elders, in front of their people. It was part-banter, part-warning, a promise to see each other later and compare the score of Orcish heads they’ve managed to cut off. A warning for the younger to keep track of his left side.

They’ve tried not to notice how fearful the other’s eyes were, how their last embrace was tighter than ever before.

When the axemen marched out, led by Thrain and a high lord of Iron Hills, Thorin tried not to look at his grandfather - Thror’s face was a picture of a broken spirit and unbreakable resolve, and the mixture was unsettling. Instead, he turned to his friends, knocking foreheads and sharing embraces with Dwalin and Balin, trying to project a sense of stupid young bravery he didn’t feel.

He even walked over to young Dain - a child so ridiculously young! Younger than even his own brother. They were never particularly close, given the difference in ages, so embracing him would be improper - no matter how much Thorin felt the boy need it. He’s just rested a steady hand on his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed briefly, wishing him all the luck in the world.

...and then Nain, the old coot, did the same to him. Go figure.

*

Thorin tried to prepare himself for the battle as much as he could. He was no slouch when it came to fighting, in truth he was quite an accomplished swordsman. As a survivor of Smaug’s attack he knew fear, terror and death were not strangers to him. Blood didn’t make him nauseous anymore, neither the sight of it nor the smell.

Night raids by Orcs taught him the skill of keeping his head in chaos.

Nothing, however, could prepare him for the _noise_.

*

As the armies clashed and first blood started to soak the ground, as he raised his sword for the first time, Thorin already knew that this sound will haunt him for the rest of his life. Bloodcurdling screams of pain and agony, sound of the feet trampling over the fallen, of breaking shields and bodies. His people’s voices mingled with the enemy’s into one infernal impossible _noise_ that he knew will never go away, that will forever engrave itself into his mind and resurface time and time again in the worst nightmares.    

And yet he pushed through it, because there was nothing else to be done. He was at the head of a column, he could no more stop in his tracks than he could steal a moment to wipe the blood off his face. Hm, maybe he should wear an helmet after all… but then, he needed as wide field of vision as possible to keep track of the situation.

He still still stole little, minute moments to look around, to try and build some sort of a map of this chaos in his head, to try and _order_ it in any way possible…

When the archers started to fall under the foul rain of black arrows, Thorin thanked Mahal for the foresight of keeping his brother away from the left wing of the main column. There was not enough _numbers_ in the world big enough that he would feel safe enough placing between danger and Frerin; their father’s wide back was the safest bet he can make.

But then another wave of Orcs fell on them - _and how much of the filth was hiding in the halls of Khazad Dum?_ \- and he didn’t have time to hope anymore, his sword was slipping from his tired grasp and he had to change hands briefly to keep it from falling.

Thorin thought himself well prepared and _brave enough_ for this battle.

Right until the Beast appeared crumbling that certainty into dust. He was left mindless and speechless, watching his grandfather die at the hands of the foulest of beings the world would conjure.

He faced Azog and it was like a nightmare came to life. The beast was enormous and savage, with no finesse in its movements, just a mad drive to kill - as if only anger and hate powered it, as if the death all around them gave it strength.

Thorin’s moves were far from finesse. Far from the graceful technique honed by the old Fundin, drilled into him by the endless hours of practice and cruel experience. He was too tired… too exhausted. His mind still reeled from the sight of Thror’s gory end, fear tied his muscles into knots. He was so off balance it was strange that he could stand at all.

And yet, against all odds, against logic and his own expectations - he had won.

 _He won_.

From the ground, armed in nothing more than a chipped sword and a broken branch of all things.

He pushed the beast back, wounded it mortally.

He won.

He didn’t think as panic pushed him to his feet, there was suddenly an army at his back and he didn’t think before opening his mouth for a rallying cry.

They’d answered the call and followed him.

Never in his entire life - before or after - has he felt so powerful, so strong…

So terrified that he could do nothing, but follow his enemy until they crawled back underground. He wanted to crush them, eradicate them. He was ready to do everything in his power to keep the filth as far from his people, from his family, as possible. _Until it’s dead and harmless, until it’s gone and he can’t see it any longer.  Until it’s over._

Then, suddenly, it was over and he didn't know what to do.

For a moment he thought that he might have gone deaf, because the world around him was strangely silent. He could feel the wind hitting his face, he just couldn't hear it.

He stood on the rocky outcrop where his legs just decided to stop moving and looked helplessly around the battlefield, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. He searched for his grandfather, even though he knew that it made no sense because he’d saw him die… he searched for father and Frerin, for the banners of their formation far ahead, under the opposite wall of the canyon. He couldn’t feel his arms and the sword was so heavy in his grasp…

The sight of sun touching the peaks on the West startled him. It was late, night was falling upon them, painting the sky an iron red and amethyst violet. All in all the day was beautiful…

Hearing came back with the sound of his own laughter that sounded terrifyingly close to crying.

 

*

 

Sometimes he will dream of it, of walking the battlefield in search for his family. Sometimes it will take ages and sometimes it won’t take any time at all. With time he will forget for how long he was actually stumbling through the bloody mud strewn with bodies and weapons, he will not remember tripping on the chopped off members and slipping on the innards, and many other gruesome sights.

It will all be replaced by what came after, all of it.

  
*

  
He saw father first.

Keeling on the ground, slumped and bowed over, hair matted with blood and red and gold armour filthy and dented. But he was breathing and relief washed over Thorin like a high wave, almost knocking him down.

It was cut short, however, when a look thrown around them revealed a distinct lack of a young Dwarrow hovering over Thrain. When Thorin heard his father’s heavy breathing and noticed that he’s not wounded or resting, but is bowed over something…

Something small.

When he stepped closer his vision blacked out - as if his eyes decided for him that they won't let him see. He stumbled forward, knees buckling, felt blood escaping his face, heart stuttering and quickening…

His…

Frerin was laying on the ground, half-cradled in their father’s arms. Still. Silent.

Why was he silent? Frerin was never silent…

Thorin stopped and was he in the right mind, Thrain’s vacant stare would scare him.

It didn’t. He wasn’t looking at Thrain anymore, he couldn’t. All his attention… no, all the world closed around his brother. His golden, young brother laying so still and quiet in the mud and _so much blood._..

And there was nothing else left.

Silence shrouded the world once more and Thorin’s vision flickered again. When it came back his hands were pulling on the fastenings of his brother’s chest plate (that he himself checked just a few hours ago!) and tearing the chainmail off as if it was made of parchment instead of steel… It might as well have been, for all the good it did at stopping the blade that slipped from the side…

Left side.

Thorin has always told him to work on the left side! He’s always…!

His fingers felt cold when they finally landed on skin.

The world was still quiet.

He could feel that he’s screaming, but he didn’t know what, couldn’t hear it. Everything was made of silence and stillness as his hands  scrambled on the cold skin desperately trying to find a way _to make it not be so!_

His throat hurt, there was blood on his tongue - probably his battered ribs reminding him to stop moving so much… or maybe it was that chasm opening in his chest as he felt himself breaking from the inside - bit by bit falling into darkness and leaving him hollow.

Frerin's face was lax and peaceful, golden eyelashes still wet with tears cried in the last moments of life. Blood marred his mouth and throat and wheat-gold hair was tangled on his forehead when Thorin pressed his lips against it to mutter pleas and denials against cold, dry skin.

His brother’s eyes were half-open, blue and unseeing.

Thorin couldn’t force himself to close them.  

  
*

  
Someone had to address the survivors. Someone had to start giving out orders and make sense of everything. Someone...

His grandfather was dead and his father was stricken with shock, unable - or unwilling - to move or speak. There was no one else.

Thorin hardly cared.

He had a brother to bury.

  
*

  
It was Balin, much later (it was always, before and after, Balin) who had entered his tent. Who stood behind him for long minutes like a silent, sympathetic sentry while Thorin kneeled over Frerin’s still form with a pile of dented steel and dirty cloth next to him.

His hands worked steadily, fingers gentle as they wiped the blood and dirt from his little brother’s body. It had to be done, before the burial. He would not let Frerin be laid to rest with even a sliver of that despicable place marring him!  

He’s tied a sash around the wound, hiding it from sight. He’s combed and properly rebraided the golden hair. He’s cleaned these small hands, finger by finger…

It was Balin’s voice - so loud in the silence that Thorin’s world has become - that pulled him upright and out of the tent. His words full of compassion and steel that pushed him into the mess that was the afterwards of a tragedy to deal with it. To order it.

So he did. He barked orders and directed resources and made their people do things that had to be done, all the time shrouded in silence. His thoughts were back in that tent, back with the small body laying on the furs, whatever he did outside of it was nothing more than an act. A play. He felt like an actor in some cruel play written by a madman.  

Like a dreamer walking through a nightmare.

He wanted to wake up, but his eyes were already open, weren’t they? He kept blinking, but they were dry and itchy, and saw everything in sharp colour and pointy angles.

Other Dwarf Lords were present, a few of them even unwounded, but whenever one crossed his path, they’ve kept lowering their eyes. They’ve always gave way to his hard stride, never stopped or questioned him.

They were all older than him - except Dain, who was no more than a wild-eyed child amongst them, wounded and still terrified, grieving for his own family, - and they should be angry… They were all despaired and grim-faced, and they should rage at his family for bringing them all this misery.

Instead, they bowed to his will.

They expected him to lead.

Him, a lad of not even sixty, broken and bowed under the weight of sorrow. Didn’t they see how wounded he was, how hollow? Didn’t they see how unprepared he was for this responsibility?

Years later he will sometimes wonder if it was reverence or revenge, to put him in this place, to make him responsible. Were they impressed with him or vengeful?

Or maybe, they were as hollow as him, but didn't have their own Balins to push them into action?

  
*

  
He’d spent the night in the tent, awake. He could not sleep anymore and feared that he won't be able to do it ever again. At least not there, in that cursed place, with the body of his brother just a few feet away, resting under the thin cover of father’s ornate cloak.

He wanted to speak, to talk to Frerin like he’d always used to. He wanted to rage at the fate that brought them to _this_.

He wanted to cry. So much he wished for tears to come and wash the pain away at least a little, but his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

The world was still silent. He was hearing voices only when they were trying to get his attention, otherwise everything around him was mute and noiseless.

Thrain was there with him, sitting on the cot in a far corner, in the same pose of a broken man Thorin has left him in after the battle. He’d tried to clean his father’s beard and hair, he’d helped him out of the armour, he’d bound the wounds on this hands… in silence.

It was so unreal, Thorin thought. It was so strange, to sit there like that, faced with a thing so terrible and cruel, and trying to feel something other than exhaustion… Trying to come to grips with the fact that they’re leaving something here, that _this accursed place took it from them with such ease_.

_“...just a moment…”_

Thorin’s head snapped up when the almost silent words reached him; he looked at Thrain over the still body resting between them.

“I’ve lost him… for just a moment...” his father whispered looking down on his scarred hands. As weak and as useless as Thorin’s. “ _Just a moment…_ ”

He couldn’t listen to it, to the sorrow and self-condemnation in that voice. It reflected his own feelings too much.

Thrain didn’t look up when Thorin stood in front of him, lost somewhere in the darkness of his own mind, not when he was engulfed in an embrace.

But a heartbeat later Thorin choked on a wail when his father’s arms rose to embrace him back. They were strong, but not strong enough to keep the nightmare away. Nothing would be, for the longest time, not until his nephews are born some decades in the future. But for a second, this was all they’ve had. Nothing could make it better, but they’ve had so little left already that any sort of comfort was priceless. And yet...

...he couldn’t stop thinking that Frerin has been wrong, so very wrong. Shared grief was no easier to carry.

  
*

  
He watched the pyres burn and the world was still silent.  

Balin and Dwalin flanked him, both crying openly at the loss of both their parents.

His arms felt stiff and bloodless. It was strange that he would've done something, in the past. He would've thrown his arms over theirs, pulled his friends to his chest and they would all try to manage their misery together. In the past... Just a day before, he thought, he would do it, he knew.

Today he just gripped their shoulders, arm’s length away, and didn’t say a word.

The chasm in his chest was deep and cold.

How could it be any different when his heart was burning to ash right in front of him?  

  
*

  
“One day you will be a king and you will understand,” he’d told Fili in Laketown.

What he wanted to say was different, but he knew that he won’t be able to push it out of his throat. It would hurt to say it - it would be too much of asking the fate to repeat itself. It would be too cruel to say to his golden nephew.

_“I’ve already buried my younger brother. I won’t have you doing the same.”_

Of course, with how the things went later it would be a useless thing to say anyway.

  
*

  
Sometimes he wakes up, covered in sweat and with an echo of a scream stuck in his throat.

And has to walk.

Has to do something with his hands, so he visits the forge - where most of the time he just sits and smokes, trying to suffocate the terror growing in his chest with the fragrant smoke of his favourite pipeweed. Brandy, the strong bitter type he had discovered in Ered Luin while he was still alive, sometimes help, but usually it doesn’t. He can’t drown his sorrow like Óin. Can’t work it off like Dwalin because every training dummy takes on some nightmarish appearance his sword arm falters at.

With time he gets better at it, thankfully. He wakes up less, he stops tearing his sheets to shreds which greatly gladdens his mother. He smokes less. Nightmares are rarer and less bloody. It would seem that time can indeed, take care of some wounds - not all of them, certainly, and not wholly. Some of his scars are still pulsing with pain and ready to burst open at a slightest touch.

Time might not be a healer, but it’s good at stitching, he thinks.

That, obviously, happens much later. Years, decades after his death. Decades of patience and hard work, of forgiving and understanding, and unmeasured love given him from the ones around him.

The first time when a nightmare tears him out of bed is messy and incomprehensible.

When he hasn’t settled yet, when he was still a being made of anger and despair.

When the novelty of having his brother back in arms’ reach still haven’t wore off…  

  
*

  
“Thorin…?” Sleepy voice mumbled. “Is that you?”

He stood by the door, with his hand tight on the handle, with his breath still hitching a bit and bare feet freezing on the cold stone… He should apologise for barging in like that. He should. It was a gross intrusion no Dwarrow should accept from anyone. To not even have the decency to knock…

But he was still half-asleep and his mind was a tangle of wild wines so instead he strode over to the low bed and gathered Frerin into his arms. Clumsy like a troll, taking the blankets and furs with him. Frerin yelped in indignation and struggled weakly, sleepily, with his vice-like grip, but Thorin couldn’t let him go.

He was so… small, his brother, _so small_. Barely bigger than a Hobbit! His golden little sun…

“Thorin, what… are you doing? Oy, stop it! Hey!” Frerin’s voice got steadily louder against his shoulder. “Thorin…!”

“Shh…” Thorin heard himself whispering. In the past it used to make Fili and Kili settle down when his nephews decided to be fussy in their cribs.

Frerin was neither - fussy or a nephew, - but he stopped struggling for a moment, hearing his voice.

“Thorin...” His voice also changed, gentled. “Are you _awake_?”

“Shh…” Thorin repeated, because no, he wasn’t and it was the only thing that came to his mind.

“Brother, I am not a child and I protest to being treated as one!”

But, he was. He will be. Forever.

Because Thorin couldn’t be in two places at once. Because he _chose wrong_!

(Like Fili didn’t. Until the very end and at least they’ve had met the end together, hand in hand.)

When his protest resulted only in the embrace tightening, Frerin changed his strategy. He embraced his brother back.

“I am okay, nadad,” he whispered. “Are you?”

“...you’re dead…” Thorin ground out through clenched teeth. His throat hurt, strange. “Dead…”

“Oh…” was the only answer to that. Such a tiny, scared sound.

And suddenly his arms were empty. He’s forgot how nimble and quick his brother was - they both were when they were young - how hard it was to keep a hold of him. It took Thorin a couple startled blinks before he thought to lower his hands.

“Well, come on, you big lump, get in,” Frerin grunted, pulling the covers into some resemblance of order and scooting back, making space on the bed. “Lay down at least, I can’t… look up for long, you know.” He tried to sound sure and unaffected, Thorin knew, but he also knew better. “Here, just… just don’t squish me.”

Thorin followed. He’s climbed on the bed and laid down, and almost instantly found himself smothered by blankets, with a spare pillow showed in his face.

“You are _freezing_!” Frerin’s voice cracked in distress. “Keep your feet away from mine… augh!”

Thorin’s arms closed again in a steel trap of an embrace, this time over a much smaller bundle of sleep-warm Dwarrow. He couldn’t let go any more than he could stop breathing.

It was such a new feeling, to have this back. To have him back, his bright, golden brother. They were both dead, and both died in the most gruesome of ways, but he could almost, _almost_ , forgive it. Almost let it go - as long as it meant having _this_ back. His sun, his family, living and unbroken, together again. Only one was missing and it was a constant source of pain, but so much more was _better_ since his awakening in the Halls.  

Fili and Kili finally had a proper father that would always do right by them, his mother… Mahal’s beard, _his mother_ was here, and his father was whole again, his grandfather has been _healed_. Nothing could harm them here, they were all safe. He was safe. Nothing could reach him, but the nightmares…

“Did you dream of… that… again?” Frerin asked gently.

Thorin startled. “Again…?”

“I’ve seen you, after the… after that. Azanulbizar.” His brother whispered. “I… watched. You and Dis and father. A lot. Probably more than I should, mother would tell you. I’ve seen you sometimes, you know… I… “Thorin felt hot breath on his collarbones, a face tucked under his chin and little fingers tightening on his shirt - like a child hiding from the storm, Frerin pushed himself tighter to his shoulder. “I wanted so much to tell you, all of you… to let you know that I’m here, that I’m… alright. So much. You were so unhappy… but you couldn’t hear me.”

A loud intake of breath was the only sound in the dark room. Thorin felt his body go stiff, his blood cool in his veins, because that… possibility never even crossed his mind.

Possibility that Frerin would watch them, that he would spend days by the starry lake, sitting on the same stone bench, watching. Watching them mourn him, watching them break down and break apart before Thorin had the sense to pull Dis back before the same despair hollowed out her heart. Watching…

Just like Thorin watched now.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke, coherent for the first time that night. “I would give everything… I should have stood by you.”

“You couldn’t, grandfather…”

“I should have argued. I should…”

 _I should have chosen you._ There was no more to it, he chose wrong and it had cost them all.

“Thorin, listen to me!” These little hands framed his face, pulling it down. Always down now, even in the darkness, where they could barely see each other. “You couldn’t have known… You can’t know it would change anything! You always blame yourself for the stupidest of things…!”

“You were my sun,” Thorin argued back, voice straining under the weight of sorrow. “I should have stood by you.”

Maybe then it would change something. He would never allow any harm to come to his siblings. Maybe they would both die or maybe they would both live, but the outcome would surely be different! It had to be!

“You would’ve changed nothing, nadad, I died because I was stupid, alright?”

It could be called brazen and uncaring, the way it was spoken, if not for the way Frerin’s voice kept wavering and his fingers kept clutching at Thorin’s braids.

“Frerin…”

“I got distracted, I didn’t pay attention… didn’t make sure that he’s dead before moving forward,” every word dripped with an old pain and the same damned kind of self-contempt Thorin knew only too well. “I got distracted and lost sight of father, and… well, I paid for it.”

“What distracted you?”

Stupid question. It was a battlefield, there has been thousands of things one had to pay attention to, too much to list them all. It was a stupid thing to ask, but there was nothing else he could say to his brother’s confession. His mind kept pulling out empty platitudes and reassurances what meant nothing when they both knew the full weight of the nightmare stretching over that memory.

“Frerin?” Thorin whispered when no answer came. “Are you…”

_“I saw you fall.”_

If his blood was cold before, now it has turned to ice.

“I saw you fall and I thought you died…” Frerin whispered under his chin. “It didn’t really hurt that much, _because I thought you died_. And I woke up here, thinking you’re dead… but it was I who was dead and not you… I was glad… I would be so happy if it wasn’t so awful for you. I would spare you all that pain if I could.”

His words, thrown back at him, Thorin realised. The words he almost forgot about, ones that once upon a time made his brother cringe. Now he understood why.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Frerin said after a minute, as level as he could manage, and proceeded to yawn ostentatiously. “I am tired and you are not letting me rest.”

A little actor, his sun. So deft.

“I will leave you to your rest, then,” Thorin whispered apologetically, he’s even managed to get one foot out of bed before he was pulled back.

“You are going to get cold again,” his brother argued. “Or stub your toe as you’ve smartly decided to travel barefoot. Better just… just lay down and let me sleep, you big idiot.”  

“Ah, well then… sleep well, mimel ûrzud,” he muttered in defeat.

The answer was predictably annoyed.

“I am not little!”

It was so familiar that his eyes misted a bit, but he closed them quickly so his face stayed dry.

For a while at least, until the little body by his side finally settled and he could hear Frerin’s breath evening out.

It was quiet in the room, but not silent.

  
*

  
It gets easier, never easy, but easier. Enough to carry on.

Nightmares stop waking him up after a while - at least his nightmares.

There are nights when his battle-honed instincts stir him from slumber when a tap of small feet on stone floor steals across the room towards his bed. There are mornings when he wakes up to a smaller body plastered to his back (in case of his brother) or spread all over his bed (in case of Kili, and doesn’t the lad have a father to seek comfort from?). Sometimes it’s mother who wakes him up for breakfast and he can open his eyes to a gentle smile on her beloved face.

It helps.

He keeps busy, or tries to, and there’s always something to do. Someone to watch over, some new thing to make, some new story to hear…

His world is rarely silent anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and a side note:
> 
> mimel ûrzud - little sun


End file.
